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The Gallery : Sunday Photo Fiction

The Gallery

The gallery was cathedralesque with it’s high vaulted walls. Pools of light cascaded from the skylights, and danced on the cream marbled floors ; created by the clouds that passed silently, high in the sky.

There was also that reverential hush as the sparse spectators paused briefly in front of exhibits that were do doubt intended for a far more vocal appreciation.

Claire had never really understood why galleries and museums were enshrouded in such silence. She took a seat on a cold marble bench and contemplated the Old Masters.

As she looked, she liked to imagine all the sounds struggling to escape from inside those frames. The gurgling brooks, the birdsong or the soft breezes playing in the trees.

Her reverie was interrupted by a joyful cavalcade of young schoolchildren rushing noisily into the room, spilling left and right, pointing and giggling at the paintings.

They were followed by a young man, obviously exasperated and overtaken by events, probably a teacher.

His embarrassed glance turned to Claire, whose uniform clearly displayed her status as an attendant.